Snowflakes

Yep, here it comes, the first fluttering. Lovely!

What is it they say? That no two snowflakes are the same? I’ve always wondered how they can possibly know that. Do they have observers in all parts of the globe, inspecting them? Then reporting back to Snowflake HQ with photos attached to their e-mails (or whatever they use these days on their new-fangled gizmos)? That’s absurd, of course. They’d have to take millions of photos, then run them through some recognition program or other. But if they did, I reckon they would discover identical snowflakes.

We used to try catching them in our palms, to see if we could find two alike – I once bet Pete a bag of sherbet lemons that we would. But naturally they’d disappear in an instant, becoming a tiny trace of water. If one landed on the sleeve of your coat while it was still dry, you might’ve been able to admire its intricate beauty, but even so it would be gone in no time. And if one fell on the ground, it would become that trace of water soon enough. Its brothers and sisters would pile on top of it, though, until you had a dusting, then a thin, lacy covering, then a coating, then a layer, then a blanket … and you’d stop caring about solitary snowflakes.

I did like a blanket of snow, moulded over the garden when you looked out from your bedroom that first morning. It meant a satisfying crunch of the thin crust underfoot – like when you pierce the seal on a jar of coffee granules – and the sinking up to your ankles, or shins ... or knees! You’d jump about the garden with the sole aim of ruining the perfection of the blanket. If you had a dog, he’d help, yelping with excitement all the while. Then the real fun would begin.

You’d make a snowball and lay it on the blanket, rolling it until it became the body – as fat as possible – of your temporary friend-to-be. You’d do the same, smaller, and lift it onto the body (with the help of your dad or brother maybe); raid the coal-shed for three lumps; ask your mum for a carrot and a spare broomstick, your dad for an old cap; fetch the scarf your aunt gave you that you never liked but your mum wouldn’t let you throw away. And voilá: Sammy, back from a year-long sabbatical, on guard in the front garden again for a few days.

The Turner brothers would come past now and aim taunts, followed by snowballs. You’d enlist your brother’s help as reinforcement. Older, stronger, he was like the USA in the Second World War. The Turners would flee, throwing insults over their shoulders, and you’d celebrate with your brother. You’d check Sammy to make sure he’d made it out alive. One of his eyes might have fallen out – that was okay. A quick bit of surgery and he was as good as new!

After breakfast, your dad would extricate the sled from behind the stack of gardening tools in the shed and you’d knock on Pete’s door to see if his mum would let him come out to play. You’d drag the sled up the hill at the end of the road. Pete would stay at the bottom to check if any cars were coming. If it was all clear, off you’d go. The first times would be disappointing until the snow got a bit more compacted. Then you could go down at (not literally!) breakneck speed, and maybe fall off when you got to the bottom, but that was okay because you had a natural mattress to cushion the fall, unless you fell off on the compacted snow, in which case it’d be bruises the next day.

After a while you’d get tired of the sled. Pete had had his goes and was tired too, so you’d pick a stretch of compacted snow, compact it further by stomping on it with your feet, and you’d soon have a slide – which was a briefer thrill than the sled but just as exciting and risky. And when you were tired of that you’d leave it as it was for some unsuspecting old person to step on it and come a cropper, but you didn’t think about that too much because you were a little bit irresponsible, which came with the job of being a kid.

At one point, Pete’s mum would call his name from their kitchen door for everyone along the street to hear, and he’d mumble an apology and slope off. You’d go back home as well to find your dad clearing the front path and you’d lend a hand, maybe using your plastic beach spade to toss loose snow to the side of the path. You wouldn’t actually be helping much, in fact, but your dad wouldn’t tell you that. He’d say “well done, son”, and you’d feel useful – maybe a little grown-up even.

By this time, your hands would be red with the cold. Dampness from the snow would have soaked through your shoes and socks, making your feet numb, so you’d go inside and let your mum take your shoes and socks off, sitting you by the fire until your hands and feet and nose started to tingle and glow with the warmth from the logs crackling away in the grate.

I can feel a similar warmth now from the heater in the corner, roaring at full blast. I’ll have to tell my granddaughter to turn it down. I’ll get her to open the curtains a bit more, too, so that I get a better view of the fluttering snowflakes. She might even help me over to the window to have a look down at the garden. They seem to be falling more heavily now, the snowflakes; it’ll be a blanket soon, and the kids will be gazing out – imagining the fun they’ll have, lucky blighters.

And I bet there will be identical snowflakes out there somewhere, floating to the ground. I’ll ask my granddaughter what she thinks when she brings me my tea.